Dusk of Drakes
by Chester Teck
Summary: 1812: a year of war. As three wars rage across the globe, the rise of a deadly new breed of soldier casts a shadow over human and dragon society alike... and stands poised to threaten the very future of one world. Based on Naomi Novik's Temeraire series.
1. Prologue

_Author's Note: Just a somewhat fantastical story concept that's been rolling around in my head since I finished reading Black Powder War. I haven't written in ages and wanted to contribute to the Temeraire fanfics on this site, so here it is. Posted on the 202nd anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar! Oh, and the usual "I do not own the work on which this is based except for original characters" disclaimer applies... you know the drill.  
_

**December 2, 1805  
Pratzen Heights – East of Brunn, Moravia**

"_One sharp blow and the war is over."_  
Napoleon I Bonaparte, Battle of Austerlitz

The Sun of Austerlitz had risen, and with it the wrath of the Grande Armée.

Mikhail Stavinsky's teeth were clenched as tight as was the saber in his gloved hand as he spurred his horse on up the slope, toward the milling mass of waiting French. They were close now, so close he could almost make out the battle-drawn faces beneath the bearskins on the blue-coated horsemen. At his side, dozens of his fellow cavalrymen rode in the awful, frozen rage that dominates the moments before a clash, sabers glinting overhead as they urged their mounts on.

French Imperial Guard. The very best of Napoleon's. He knew them. As they knew him and his comrades – Russian Imperial Guard. The very best of the Tsar's. They had ridden down the line men like dogs; had driven them off the heights in what Stavinsky saw as nothing more than an unfair slaughter. Cavalry, elites no less, against mere infantry and green Austrians. The atrocity of it filled his blood with fire. Now, it was time to pay the bastard French back in full. Guard against Guard. Chevalier against Grenadier. They would settle the score – as equals.

The French up on the slope loomed ever closer. Some broke away from the main body and began descending the slope at full gallop. Stavinsky whirled his saber in fierce excitement and dug his booted feet deeper into the stirrups. They were coming to him. Good. It would be a fine start to trample these animals into the dirt before the real fighting began.

They struck the French at almost the same time a thunderous roar rent the air of the battlefield – not cannon, but the dragons battling in the skies above. The noise made little impression on Stavinsky's mind as, with a vicious blow of his heavy steel blade, he sheared the arm off a French horseman who hurtled past screaming. All around cries of man and horse and the ring and clatter of steel on steel drowned out all coherent thought. There was only room for more rage, more frenzy; more desire to kill. He rode on in the grip of a crushing fury; saber trailing crimson, swinging to the left and right, parry gliding into slash and counter-slash and back into swiping parry. Only the sight of one of his comrades' familiar colors stayed his hand.

When he at last looked about him, the scene was glorious. Frenchmen in the mud under Russian horse-hooves, dead or dying, with their floundering mounts; his fellows circling the carnage crying out in triumph, exhorting each other onward. His already white-knuckled grip on his sword tightened still further. Now they would take the fight to the rest of the French, and avenge their lesser comrades cut down like so much cattle up there. Afire with exultation, the wind on his face and blood pounding hard in his ears, Stavinsky looked up the slope.

And stared.

A dragon was ascending from behind the gently arcing summit of the heights. Not even the flap of its great wings could blot out the terrible sun. Stavinsky had seen its like before; its ivory, marbled hide identified it as a Chanson-de-Guerre, one of the French heavyweights. Probably one of those that had wreaked such havoc on the Russian lines earlier in the day, at Sokolnitz. Its baleful eyes were windows into hell as it rose above the field, a vast angel of death, and the Russian horsemen balked beneath its gaze as a mighty roar, draconic and French combined, shook the very earth.

Stavinsky's horse whinnied in terror, as did many of the others around him, and he pulled hard on the reins, cursing. Fear pushed aside hot-blooded frenzy. They were hopelessly exposed. Where was their aerial support? He looked wildly up into the sky, seeking out an Ironwing or any of the Austrian dragons. But there was only clear sky, and against it a ferocious tableau of fighting dragons – the beasts swerving in and out of furious combat like so many birds at play. Their plight was completely unnoticed by the aviators. Now the horror of the situation hit him like an ocean wave, and he felt like he would fall from his saddle, so strong was the revulsion.

The French charge had been a trick. A buffering attack, designed to break their momentum early, to dampen their assault before it could crush into the French main body. Now they had lost the initiative; having slowed, they were helpless in the face of a full cavalry counter-charge, and were at the mercy of the Chanson besides.

"Mikhail."

He forced himself to look up, into the eyes of Viktor Illyanovich, his long-time brother in arms.

"We've come a long way, Mikhail. We've fought a good fight. Let's go. We'll walk in the streets of Moscow again."

Stavinsky reached out and clasped the proffered hand, choking back a sudden, hysterical sob in his throat. The other man's face was so taut with emotion, it looked like it would crack at the slightest twitch of muscle.

Their gloved hands came apart as the shadow fell upon them.

"Ware! Ware!"

The Devil had come for him. Stavinsky tore his gaze to the sky and took a firm grasp on his saber, cold determination filling his heart as he watched his doom fall from above. The Chanson descended, talons reaching out, and the Russian cavalrymen scattered in abject terror as the massive dragon roared close by overhead, raking dozens in one bloody swoop. The sheer thundering noise of the beast's passage threw Stavinsky from his horse, and the world swirled all around as he hit the churned-up earth on his back, all breath knocked from him.

In the first, dazed seconds, he felt the earth rumbling. Instinct cut its way through the pain.

He scrambled to find his feet. His sword was gone. His horse was missing. All around him, the survivors were left shattered and bloodied in the wake of the dragon's attack. And the French were coming. Full gallop. He had but a few more seconds to act.

Illyanovich's horse was struggling to its feet nearby. Of its rider there was, too, no sign. Stavinsky ran over to it and, taking it by the reins, swung himself up into the saddle, looking about for his friend even as he cried for a retreat at the top of his lungs. The Pratzen Heights was lost. Their cause was lost. All that remained was an ignoble withdrawal, which they might not even survive. The French cavalrymen were upon them. And high above, the dreadful instrument of their destruction, the Chanson, was turning about to come around for another deadly pass.

Stavinsky whipped his commandeered mount, reaching for his flintlock with his other hand. Those of his comrades still on horseback were following hard on his heels, looking as ragged and dazed as he felt, while a stone's throw behind rode the charging French, their dragon looming large as it gained on them from the skies.

He did not know why he had been spared its attack. He knew only that he was to make his last stand with his back to the enemy. And that galled him above all else. Pistol in hand, he turned in the saddle, preparing to take aim. His finger curled around the trigger.

Then he heard it.

It was like nothing he had ever heard. Where it came from he could not say. A piercing crack, akin to the report of a rifle, but different somehow; it was so loud it split the noise of battle like a thunderclap – a sharp, deep crack, reverberating in his ears like the toll of a church bell, echoes cannonading across the field for a heartbeat before fading out.

Then he saw it.

The Chanson swerved violently to one side in mid-air, a terrible, ululating bellow escaping its great maw as it plunged earthward in a wild, uncontrolled dive. Stavinsky caught a fleeting glimpse of the looks of shock on the upturned faces of the Frenchmen as the dragon plummeted toward them, landing with crushing force upon their body like a boulder hurled from an ancient mangonel. The earth shook as a vast explosion of dirt and mud was thrown skyward, and he saw no more of his pursuers.

The Russians, not understanding, cried out to God and rode on furiously, bent on reaching safety with what was left of their number. In stunned awe at what he had witnessed, Stavinsky quickly returned his attention to the front and tried to keep up with his battle-shocked fellows. It was a minute more before the feeling of firmly grasping something in his hand got to him, and he glanced down at his flintlock pistol – still loaded.

**Satschan Pond – South of Pratzen, Moravia**

The road to Vienna lay across the ice, and Stavinsky knew he had to cross it.

He bled from his wounds, and was unarmed. His horse – poor Viktor's horse – was on the verge of collapse. As was he. But he could not stop yet. He, and the many others around him fleeing south to Vienna, was far from being out of danger. Already he could hear the French in the near distance, closing in on them; field guns, and perhaps a dragon or two. They could spare those, and more. Napoleon had won. They had won.

He kicked his exhausted steed onto the ice. The fire that had burned in him earlier was long blown out, leaving embers as cold and lifeless as the frozen ground underfoot. His hurts stung. Blood was spreading, a thick red shadow, through his tattered Guard uniform. All he wanted to do was get away – a thought that knifed into him relentlessly, mocking his inculcated patriotic morals. Where is your love of the motherland? Your pledge to serve the Tsar? He shook his head sharply. The battle was lost. They had to regroup, and cut their losses. A dead man served no one.

He prayed the ice would hold as he set off at a fast canter in the wake of a small column of Russian infantrymen, many already hatless and staggering from injuries and weariness. Alongside pounded those cannon that the gun crews had managed to drag off the field before the advancing French. A good deal of good artillery. God forbid that it should fall into the hands of the...

"French! Behind us!"

Stavinsky's head jerked around in surprise. As the shout faded on the biting wind, he caught sight of the French gunners pulling up far behind, beyond the edge of the frozen pond; those in the van were already rushing to deploy their pieces as others arrived from the rear. His hand closed, spasmodically, about the grip of his pistol. It was only too clear what they intended. He pictured artillery fire raining from above, smashing the ice, sinking the entire body of retreating men into icy, watery oblivion. None would survive water this cold. Brutal. And highly effective.

In that instant, Stavinsky knew a true hatred for the monster that these dogs of France called emperor.

But the French guns remained silent. Fully deployed and unlimbered, they remained still and silent on the horizon, as though they were there to merely observe the Russian withdrawal. Why did they not fire? Stavinsky ground his teeth as he drew to a halt, glaring while dozens of soldiers ran past, wide-eyed, cursing and swearing. Why did they not fire?

In a moment, the answer literally fell upon him.

Another dragon appeared out of the clouds above, swooping down toward them with a deep-throated cry that drove the men about him into a wild panic. Another Chanson? Stavinsky could not say for sure, nor did he care. He all but snatched his flintlock from its holster, ready to fire his last shot at the beast before the Satschan claimed him. Eyes narrowed, a figure of unearthly stillness atop his panting horse amidst the chaos all around, he swiftly took aim in both gloved hands as the dragon's great bulk grew larger and larger above. If this was to be the one to break the ice, with its prodigious weight or explosives perhaps, then it was to be his killer, and he would go down fighting it.

The huge dragon's shadow eclipsed all else. With a parting, bitter profanity upon his lips, Stavinsky pulled the trigger.

The sound he heard next was not the report of his weapon. It was the same as he had heard, earlier, during the frenzied retreat from Pratzen. That same incredible crack, like thunder, resonating over the frozen Satschan, a hammer blow to his senses. Even as it died out, the dragon's neck twisted, violently, its vast wings madly beating in its death throes as it soared past above him. The flintlock pistol, still smoking, fell forgotten to the ice as he stared agape, shielding his eyes against the sun, at the great beast's fall to earth not far off.

The world shook to its very foundations. There was a dreadful boom and crashing noise as the ice heaved and cracked. Russian soldiers cried out in terror, throwing down muskets and veering away from where the dragon had fallen, where massive fissures were already clawing their way out across the pond. Half buried in the broken ice, the dead French dragon was an awesome sight as it slowly began to sink into the freezing water.

Stavinsky felt a sudden, unbridled surge of emotion. The ice would hold. It had to hold. The weight of the dragon was not enough to shatter it completely. Hope. There was still hope. They had to get away, out of the range of the French artillery. Now.

"Now!" he roared out, loud and hoarse, unaware even of his own voice. "Now! To the bank!"

Men around him took heed, and redoubled their efforts. Yelling, Stavinsky drove his boots into the flanks of his horse, so weary it had paid no attention to the dragon's passage, exhorting it on to one final desperate charge. Amid masses of frantically fleeing comrades, he hurtled across the glittering surface of the frozen Satschan Pond.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. He felt nothing but an all-consuming drive to live as he leaned low in the saddle. Twice he had survived death this day. Surely this was a sign from God. Surely it was His will. He had to survive this battle.

As the bank inexorably neared, the horizon behind Stavinsky burst into the flames of a hundred firing French cannon.


	2. Dawn

**July 22, 1812  
Lake Lucerne – Lucerne, Central Switzerland**

For the cloaked stranger standing silent and still on the shore, the twinkle of soft, silver moonlight on the quietly lapping waters of the lake was a source of calm and of anxiety alike. One could not tell the latter emotion from his poise, or from his face, if even his face could be seen – masked as it was behind the shadow of his dark mantle. Only calm, a cool, deathly calm that pervaded the air all around as he cut a lonely figure on the lake shore.

An observer, if there were any, might have perceived that his hands, gloved in a dark cloth like the rest of his person, held in them some implement of steel, or so it seemed from its gleam through chinks in the velvet that shrouded it – a large, bulky thing, of irregular shape, long and heavy of aspect, standing upright in the soil at the stranger's feet like a great sword of some knight of old. His hands caressed the one end of the object they held, the slow movement of the gloved fingers the only indication that any life, any feeling, stirred in the man under the dark cloak.

The sky was gold when he had arrived, and now the moon was risen. The wind blew across the lake. Still he waited.

A low, shrill cry, barely perceptible, came on the wind. The stranger lifted his hooded head slowly.

Over the water came a dragon, small and black as night, beating its little wings hard as it made one pass and then descended gracefully upon the shore. The man did not move as the creature landed not twenty feet off, buffeting his cloaked form with a steady gust of damp wind, and fixed upon him with a pair of moon-white, glowing eyes.

A man slid off the dragon's back.

"You are indeed late."

The words sliced the tranquil air like a thin blade.

"Indeed," answered the newcomer, as he strode to his companion, "yet, I do not beg your pardon."

The two men faced each other. Similarly attired, each bearing the same curious object of steel veiled in velvet, the one was akin to a mirror image of the other.

"Then speak."

The dragon-rider chuckled, a humorless sound.

"Bonaparte has entered Russia. The Grande Armée has crossed the Niemen."

"Russia."

"Aye. Russia."

The wind blew, ruffling the cloaks of both men. In it the long, indrawn breath of the first man went almost unheard.

"I came from St. Bienheuré as soon as I was able."

"Yes. You have done well."

The dragon-rider came forward a step, and appeared to peer closely at the other.

"Ah. I see. I remember now; you were at Austerlitz."

"I was at Austerlitz. And I remember it as it were yesterday. God's blood! I had thought we'd done all in our power to –"

"Enough, you know well as I what is at stake here."

The man looked away a moment, an uncharacteristic gesture of avoidance. "You need not remind me."

"No? It seems to me you begin to forget your place. Your cause. _Our_ cause."

"I am as true to the cause as you are."

Silence fell between the two men, punctuated only by the gentle murmur of the lake's waters and the muted snorting of the small, black dragon behind as it watched the strange conversation. At length, the second man drew himself up.

"Well. That is good. And now –"

"Now?"

"I am the bearer of a directive from St. George. You are to act upon it at once. Here –" from within the folds of his cloak he produced a sealed letter, "and do not tarry, for as I understand, much depends on your swift action."

The letter crumpled to a ball in its recipient's hand. When he replied, it was in a voice with all the warmth of an open grave.

"God forbid that I should require _you_ to remind me also of the virtue of swiftness."

"As you say. Come, we have spoken long enough already."

He hefted his velvet-wrapped burden atop one shoulder, and turned back to his dragon. The cold, quiet voice from behind, however, clear as if it had whispered in his ear, gave him a moment's pause with one foot on the harness.

"It ends here."

Long after the flap of dragon wings had faded into the distance, a solitary, cloaked figure, a crushed paper in hand, stood silent and still on the shore of the moonlit lake.

**Battle of Saltanovka – Near Mogilev, Belarus**

At a shout from their lieutenant, the musketeers opened fire with a single thunderous volley, and Captain Alexei Kokorin had to squint through the gun-smoke to discern the chaos it had wrought on board the French dragon they had just swooped past. The crew of the Papillon Noir had taken the full brunt of the fire, as evidenced by the numerous bodies he glimpsed hanging limply from their carabiner straps. A happy sight.

"About turn; turn about!" he screamed wildly into the wind. "One more time!"

There was a sensation of weightlessness as they went up and around, and then, as they hurtled earthward in pursuit of the fleeing Papillon, the clouds and the smoke of battle were ripped away as if by the hand of God to reveal the battlefield in all its bloody grandeur. Far below, the sea of dark green that was General Bagration's army broke upon the French positions like a rolling tide. It was impossible to see exactly what was happening from his lofty position atop his dragon's neck; nevertheless, with all the astuteness of a senior captain, Kokorin perceived that it was not well. The French were standing fast and returning the Russians' fire shot for shot; tiny puffs of smoke drifted in a thousand spots all over the field accompanied by the distant crackle of musketry. And the toll it seemed to be taking was not a pleasant sight.

"Sir!" called his lieutenant, wrenching his attention back to the engagement at hand.

He stared into the near distance. The Papillon they were chasing had leveled out its dive, and was making hard for the nearest skirmish, doubtless hoping to deter Kokorin by the presence of more French dragons. Indeed – there was a Petit Chevalier, and two Pêcheur-Rayés, all locked in vicious combat with other dragons of his formation. He recognized them. This cowardly tactic of the Papillon's captain would not throw him off. With a snarl, he gave the order to close in.

The Papillon flashed between the Petit Chevalier and its antagonist, putting the two battling dragons between them. Kokorin took a firmer grip on his carabiner straps as his own dragon negotiated the obstacle in a swooping overhead arc, clawing the large French heavyweight in one lightning pass. In another heartbeat they were almost upon their prey. The musketeers had made ready and presented arms, preparing to unleash another withering volley on command.

They were never to get the chance. A roar, bone-rattling in its terrible intensity, jerked Kokorin's head around.

The Petit Chevalier, bleeding from its head, had taken after them. Men cried out as musketeers on board the French dragon opened fire, shying away from the deadly hail. Kokorin ducked as he returned fire with his pistol. His heart was racing. This was not part of the plan.

"Down!" he bellowed to his dragon. "Down!"

They could not possibly hold off the Chevalier, not with the crafty Papillon already coming round for a flanking strike. Their only chance was to get earthward as much as possible, and hope to lure the French into coming in range of the infantry. It was a risky maneuver, but all Kokorin could come up with; it had saved his life and his crew before, but he could not help but wonder if the French captains were veteran enough as he was to see through the ploy.

They just might take the bait. No dragon captain could resist the tempting prospect of such a near-run victory. Kokorin prayed inwardly as the battle below loomed ever closer, so caught up in the frenzy of the moment that he neglected even to reload his spent flintlock.

A thousand Russian muskets rose skyward, bayonet blades gleaming in the sun. The scintillating display was a shock of delight to Kokorin's battle-taut nerves.

There was another great roar, and the Petit Chevalier pulled up abruptly, half blinded by the blood in its eyes as it swung away in a desperate, tight arc. French voices hollered on the whistling wind. Yet still the Papillon came on, maw agape, a headlong airborne charge.

Dark green flowed by beneath as they swept past almost at tree-top level. Then there was smoke and thunder as Bagration's infantry discharged their ordnance skyward. Kokorin clenched a gloved fist in fierce glee as hundreds of musket balls tore frightful rents in the wings, torso, and underbelly of his French pursuer. The Papillon's agonized bellow went practically unheard in the cheer that arose from his own crewmen.

Ecstatic as he was, Kokorin knew better than to allow himself the distraction of triumph. "It's not over, you mongrels!" he cried, reaching to his belt for new powder and shot. "Come about! Back to the battle, blast your eyes!"

The crew swiftly obeyed, and seconds later they were high above the field once more, turning back to the skirmish. Kokorin spared the battle below another glance. It was getting worse. All over, Russian soldiers were falling back before the merciless French fire. He fancied he could even see Cossacks riding hard from French cuirassiers on the flanks. He bit his lip. What point was an aerial victory if the fight on the ground was lost? Now was their chance to drive the French back across the River Niemen, off Russian soil; stop the invasion even before it began. But were they going to get it? A chill seized him at the memory of past conflicts. These French were no mean foes.

Nor were their dragons. He stared hard at the raging battle ahead.

Captain Markov had broken away in his direction. He blinked, rubbed his wind-stung eyes, stared again. But there was no mistake.

_Prepare to retreat,_ the signal flags on Markov's Ironwing were flashing.

"Sir!" his signalman shouted. "Sir, Captain Mar –"

"I see it, you fool!" Kokorin yelled back. "I want to know why! What in the name of God is that man thinking?"

The signal flags waved, and as the two Russian dragons leveled out their turns and flew alongside, the answer came back.

_Enemy reinforcements on the wing._ Kokorin glared across the abyss between them at Markov. The other Russian captain was in a rage, pointing a finger at him and roaring out in a voice that was lost to the wind.

Damn you, Kokorin seethed. _Trus._ Coward.

"God! Sir!" came the cry of his lieutenant. "Look!"

Kokorin whirled. The sight that met his eyes was like a blow to the gut, stealing all his breath away.

Against the sun, half a dozen French dragons beat their inexorable way over the horizon toward the battle. He did not need a glass to tell him what they were. The deadliest fighters of l'Armée de l'Air. Held in reserve for this moment, to sweep the Russians from the sky. Grand Chevalier, Flamme-de-Gloire, Chansons-de-Guerre. A force their already battered formation had as much hope of withstanding as a sand castle has against the tide. He felt sick to his stomach.

Markov had been pointing _behind_ him. Not at him.

Seven years dissolved around him like morning mist. He was back above a battlefield in Moravia, a primal howl of anguish filling his ears as he watched, impotently, comrades fall to earth screaming atop their dying dragons. Far below, on the heights, blue and white waves of cavalry met each other in a terrible clash, the thunder of which rang even to the clouds. He could not see for the hot tears in his eyes. The French were everywhere. He saw a Chanson break away and swoop down toward the heights…

"Sir. Your orders?"

He was staring into the pale face of his lieutenant. It bothered him that he couldn't remember the young man's name.

"Alexei!" Markov had found a speaking trumpet at last. His strident voice boomed in Kokorin's ears. "Get the hell out! Pull out! We haven't a minute!"

He wet his dry, cracked lips with his tongue. His throat felt painfully parched.

"Lieutenant," he said, hoarsely, "on my command, signal the retreat."

He saw the blind horror that was a cold, black void in him spread across the man's features. It was a sight he could not endure. He turned away.

"There's nothing more we can do here. They have won."

They left the field behind them in minutes. Not one man on board the retreating dragons looked back. There was no need to. The rapidly fading noise of battle mocked them; told them in the simplest of terms that their comrades on the ground had fared as they had fared in the air. Bagration had been defeated. The Russian army was withdrawing.

Napoleon had taken his first step on the road to Moscow. And, Kokorin vowed bitterly, his next would be into a dragon's maw.


	3. Daybreak

_Author's Note: Wow. Has it been that long since I updated this piece? It seems so. For those who read the previous chapter of "Sunrise" and found it utterly childish, you're not the only one. I took it down following a discussion with a friend who gave me some new ideas. Here on, I'm taking the story in a new direction. It took quite a bit of planning, but I cannot describe the feeling of seeing what was once merely a fantastical concept turning into something... else._**  
**

**August 6, 1812  
City of Madrid – Madrid, Central Spain**

Victory.

The word was a soundless whisper in the head of Arthur Wellesley, Earl of Wellington, as he paced the luxurious galleries of the Palacio Real de Madrid in a silent reverie under the indifferent stares of a hundred oil portraits and richly embroidered tapestries. He walked slowly, alone, in the company of only his musings. The corridors were dim. The rumble of the army's bustle and activity outside the great palace made little impression through the thick walls.

He needed these moments to himself. The Spanish capital was his, but not his own thoughts. He, commander of His Majesty's army on the Peninsula. He who had broken the French at Salamanca barely a month before. He who had, this day, marched into Madrid to the delirious welcome of thousands of cheering Spaniards. He, who had accomplished so much – and had so much more to accomplish.

Victory.

His feet brought him to a halt beneath a great shield. In its place of honor above the junction of three corridors, it gleamed, pure and polished silver, like a star in the low lamplight. His gaze touched on every inch of the intricate gilded decorations worked into its surface. A relic of some ancient past, perhaps, when knights and Moors rode the Iberian plains. An ornate gold dragon rearing, bat wings widespread, above a golden castle. He stared at the dragon, hearing in his mind the terrible roars, as they dove into battle, of the creatures that had played so decisive a role in the campaigns he had waged to drive the French out of Spain.

High above the Arapiles, at Salamanca. Over the trenches of death, at Badajoz. Year upon year.

Victory.

Soft footsteps on the carpeted floor in the passage behind. The shadow of a reflection darkened the bright surface of the shield. A slight cough; a deep, husky voice.

"Milord Wellington."

He turned his head. Edward Surrey stood there, tall and graying in his smart bottle-green uniform, the stars of a senior air commodore shining on the epaulettes. Wellington met the deferential look from the deep brown eyes. He liked this veteran, aristocratic officer, a formidable aviator of some fifty-odd years born and bred to the Aerial Corps. The commodore was one of his subordinate commanders he put the most trust in; a man who by virtue of his great experience and expertise in matters of war could always be counted on, one who had never failed him on the field.

Which made the decision Wellington had been forced to make days before, the reason he had now summoned the commodore here, all the harder.

"Commodore Surrey."

The older man approached. "You sent for me, sir."

Wellington looked as if he was about to say something, but then reached into a pocket of his coat and produced a letter instead, handing it to Surrey without a word.

The commodore took the paper with slowly climbing eyebrows. It was clearly an official dispatch from the Admiralty, the seal already broken – the Earl had already perused it. Not meant for him, then. But then why –?

He unfolded the paper.

_Whitehall, London  
July 29, 1812_

_Sir Arthur Wellesley, Earl Wellington_

_Sir,_

_In light of the State of War that now exists between Great Britain and the United States, we have found it necessary to make such changes to our Designs in Spain as to accommodate certain Developments on the Canadian border. An insufficiency of Dragons being the Matter brought to our attention by Administrator of Upper Canada Major-General Isaac Brock, it has become necessary to assign Resources in that Department to the purpose of Defense of the American front._

_Wherefore you will, without delay, dispatch two Dragons at your discretion, middle to heavyweight, of sound Condition, with their Captains and Crews, to that front with all due haste; that they may disembark at York no later than August the eighteenth, there to be placed under nominal Command by such Person as is in charge of the local Detachment of His Majesty's Aerial Corps._

_Herein neither you nor yours shall fail, or answer the Contrary at your Peril._

_I have the Honor to be, sir, your obedient Servant,_

_John Crawford  
Secretary for Aerial Command  
His Majesty's Aerial Corps_

Surrey looked up from the letter.

"So it's come to this, by Jove," he exclaimed, hoarsely. Wellington was watching him.

"Yes, it would seem so," the Earl said quietly.

"Here we are, fighting – dying – to push that pretender of a Bonaparte out of a country that doesn't even appreciate it, and they want to rob us of two of my best when our work isn't done?" Surrey shook the paper in his hand, suddenly livid, his voice cracking with frustration. "Is America a greater threat to British interests, to all Europe even, than France? Than Bonaparte? Sir, your pardon, but I'd like to hear you out on this. Whitehall's wrong, and you know it."

Wellington heaved a sigh. "Surrey, listen, man. You could stand here all night talking, and I all night listening, and it'd do neither of us any good. August the eighteenth; that's less than two weeks your men have to make for York. You know this, I think, better than I do – they have to leave by tomorrow morning, no later. In fact, if it is possible, they should depart tonight."

"God!" the commodore swore, turning away.

"Amen," Wellington was stern. "Surrey, an order is an order. I don't like it any more than you do. But it has to be done. Do you understand me? That is why I need you here."

There was silence. Surrey began pacing, the dispatch hanging limply from his fingers, as Wellington looked on in patient anticipation.

At length, the commodore spoke. His voice was again calm, unruffled.

"Well, sir, who did you have in mind?"

The Earl nodded, satisfied. He moved closer, making a steeple of his fingers in a gravely thoughtful expression. "Surrey, you know your men. Each and every one. Their dragons, their crews, their capabilities. You know them better than I know my own staff. What I need from you is information. Tell me about your men. I need information, so I can decide who to send. I don't want written recommendations. I want to hear it from your own lips. Each and every one – their dragons, their crews, their capabilities. Come now, man."

The two men faced one another in the flickering gloom of the gallery. In the distance, a dragon's roar could be heard, dimly, through the palace's walls.

With a slow nod, Surrey began. "My best is Excelsis, a Parnassian."

"His captain?"

"Squadron Leader Jacob Isaacs. He has been a valuable asset to us throughout the campaign – if you will remember, sir, at Badajoz he and two others foiled de Mallard's attempt to bomb our flank. It was Isaacs who saw the danger. He is sharp-eyed, cool under fire, and a competent leader. And he is not yet thirty-five. Excelsis himself is a dragon of great experience and ability; Isaacs is his third captain, and he has a record of eighteen dragons personally downed or captured. He cannot be recommended enough."

Wellington listened in silence, nodding at every sentence.

"Captain George Williams, on Vivere, a Malachite Reaper. He was a lieutenant at Trafalgar, and I personally promoted him for his conduct in that battle. These past seven years, he has served with distinction, including actions in Denmark; he has commendations for bravery at Copenhagen and Anholt to his name. He is fairly young, but a very capable aviator. I've not seen many men with his aptitude and awareness in the air."

Surrey paused, taking in his superior's expression.

"Captain Charles Hamilton, on Justitia, a Pascal's Blue. As one of my most senior captains, Hamilton has played a part in many actions over his thirty-two years of service. The man is long overdue for a promotion to squadron leader, and I expect to grant him that honor upon the departure of Isaacs. He, too, was with me at Trafalgar, and – I say this in all honesty, sir – I do not think you will find a wiser captain in all the Corps, nor one so adept at exploiting enemy weaknesses in the very heart of a battle. I value him highly for his expertise and his role as a mentor to the younger aviators. Justitia herself is large for her breed, and as shrewd and hardy as her captain – at Salamanca, she retired a Pêcheur-Couronné and two Poux-de-Ciel alone. You ought to have seen it, sir."

The Earl's stern, lamp-lit face remained unmoved.

"Captain Michael Merriott, on Ira, a Chequered Nettle. Also a senior captain, he is quite a recent arrival, but his and his dragon's records speak volumes of their skill and experience. Ira is a veteran flier – she served against the revolutionaries in America all those years ago – and an exceptionally fierce fighter, with a record of fifteen dragons personally downed or captured. And Merriott himself has proven his worth on more than one occasion. He is well-educated, and has offered me valuable advice on more than one occasion. He is smart, quick-thinking, and has a keen grasp of tactics as well. He and his dragon are a mainstay of their formation."

Surrey thought for a few moments, then continued.

"Lastly... there is Veritas, an Anglewing, under Captain Beaufort. My youngest captain, but a very gifted one. Since their arrival in Spain last year, Veritas and his captain have consistently shown promise in both battle and scouting missions. Despite his youth, he is an extremely talented flier, even for his breed, and of much worth to his formation. He is in sound condition, but Beaufort was wounded at the Arapiles during a French boarding. Still, I expect both of them to return to active duty in a week or so." He stopped. "Will that be sufficient, sir?"

"I should suppose," Wellington said thoughtfully. "Out of the five you have mentioned, two must go. You speak highly of them all, Surrey. Were you to choose..."

The words hung, unfinished, in the stillness. Surrey , seeing his opening, went on.

"Were I to choose, sir, it would be... by God, but it is near impossible..." The commodore rubbed his eyes, thinking hard for a few moments. "Captain Williams, sir, and Captain Hamilton. That's it. Williams is yet young, and the road before him is long – perhaps some time in America will temper him further. As to Hamilton, I hope this posting will give him a hand towards that promotion. I will not send Squadron Leader Isaacs; he is worth too much in his role here, and as to Captain Merriott, I will have need of his mind. Captain Beaufort is... shall we say, yet a little inexperienced. If the Admiralty wants my best, that is what they will have, and be damned to them!"

The Earl was nodding in time to his words. "Well said, well said indeed. Now, were I to choose..."

Surrey took a deep breath, waiting.

"... I would send Captain Beaufort with Captain Hamilton."

"I beg your pardon, sir," the commodore said quickly. "Beaufort is young, and s –" He stopped short.

"So is Williams. I think it a fine choice, Surrey. If he is as gifted as you say, it should compensate for his youth. That aside, you may instruct Hamilton to guide and supervise him. A captain of Hamilton's age and experience would make a worthy mentor to anyone, let alone a young officer of Beaufort's like."

"Yes, indeed, but –"

"Think about it, Surrey," Wellington cut him off, "a Pascal's Blue and an Anglewing would nicely comply with the Admiralty's order, I should think."

Surrey shook his head. "The air of the Canadas would be better to a Malachite Reaper than the heat of Spain."

"Be that as it may, this is my decision. Keep Williams. You have known the man a long time; keep him under your wing. It is settled."

The commodore stood very still, looking his superior in the face. None of Wellington's characteristic sternness was absent. The Earl was dead serious. And the tone in his voice indicated finality. Now Surrey understood. He hadn't been called here to suggest who should go. He had been called here to suggest who shouldn't.

"They leave tonight, Surrey. See to it."

An order is an order.

"Very good, sir."

xxxxxx

In the expansive covert grounds once occupied by the local detachment of the Armée de l'Air, dragons lifted their heads or opened a drowsy eye as men in aviators' uniform passed, headed for the building that once served as the former French officers' mess. Outside the walls of Madrid, well away from the city and the people, it had been promptly vacated the day before when the British were sighted marching on the Spanish capital, and few in Madrid itself had even noticed. If anything, the British aviators had been just as poorly received as their French predecessors in the region – the Spaniards were only too willing to make no secret of that.

The mess lived up to the literal meaning of its name; the French aviators had departed in a great rush, leaving what was once a lush, well-appointed room in shambles. As the British had but just arrived on the grounds, no one had made any efforts to set the place in order; nor did any of the off-duty aviators, sifting through the tangle of overturned chairs and tables and toppled furniture, mind overmuch. A consequence of war on the Peninsula; after enough time, the privileges of a proper mess, with proper furnishings, mattered little the more. They were at the front. Each new day brought whispers of war. Each sunrise was bright with the promise of battle. Any time of any day, they could be ordered into action. When death lurked around every corner of the clouds, what was a little luxury on the ground?

Such thoughts occupied the mind of Charles Hamilton, as he righted a finely carved chair and sat down with a pronounced sigh.

"You're getting old, Hamilton," his squadron leader observed, pouring a glass of wine from one of several bottles salvaged from a pile of shattered glass on the other side of the room. "I can hear that sigh from a mile away. Before, you'd have to scream."

Hamilton accepted the proffered glass, snorting. "You're not a bloody mile away, Isaacs. Where are the rest?"

Jacob Isaacs sipped at his wine, taking a moment to savor the taste before swallowing. "You'd expect the whole squadron in here? Rowan and Macdonald are still down in the infirmary; you can go drag them out if you feel like it. Price, Woods, and Jeddings are out scouting; care to shout for them? Beaufort –"

"Where's Beaufort?" Hamilton asked, to cut short his superior's sarcasm.

Across the room, Michael Merriott chuckled. "Rest easy, Hamilton," he quipped, lighting a lantern to further brighten the mess. "That Frenchman's sword tore her up a bit, but she's fine; hopping about on a crutch now, or at least she was when last I saw her. Your little girl's dandy."

That drew a laugh from Isaacs and the other aviator present, George Williams. Hamilton gave his fellow senior captain a squint-eyed look, glass of wine poised in mid-air. "Merriott, shouldn't you be in the drawing room? Old Surrey would be missing you, I'd wager."

"You don't," Williams jibed, to more laughter – that trailed off at the sound of the mess door opening.

"Louder," the slight, fair-haired figure leaning on a wooden crutch said, sardonically, from the doorway. "I don't think the French can hear you out there. The sound might just scare their dragons to death."

Williams, nearest to the door, coughed loudly and held a hand out to her. "Jolly good of you to make it, Beaufort."

With some difficulty, Anne-Marie Beaufort hobbled into the room, favoring her formation-mate with a slight smile as she moved past. Williams dropped his hand with a mock hurt expression.

"How is Veritas?" Hamilton asked her, rising to allow her his chair even as three others were quickly righted in an oddly funny display of chivalric courtesy.

Beaufort shook her head, wincing a little from her injured leg. The crutch wasn't all that was keeping her up, but without it, she'd probably buckle within a dozen steps. She kicked another chair upright with her good leg and settled down with a grimace as the other aviators gathered around; Isaacs eyeing her with interest over the rim of his glass, Merriott blowing out the match he had been lighting the lanterns with, and Williams reaching for the wine bottle only to realize there wasn't another unbroken glass in the room.

"The same. I just can't batter it out of him; he's still stewing himself over the boarding," she said with a degree of exasperation, as Hamilton sat back down and put a hand to his chin.

"You'd have thought three weeks of reassuring would put the whole issue to rest." Beaufort scowled as she nursed her bandaged leg. "I'm almost well enough to go back in the air, anyhow."

"Are you sure?" Isaacs leaned back in his chair and swirled his wine; his voice had assumed a superior's interrogative air.

"Three weeks, for God's sake," Beaufort exclaimed, looking at him. "Surrey won't even let me out on a scouting flight! What good am I and Veritas, then, here at the blessed front? Isaacs, you of all people ought to understand –"

"No, not me," the squadron leader said with a barely stifled grin, and Merriott and Williams laughed.

Hamilton drained his wine in a gulp. "Louder. I don't think the French can hear you out there." His parroting of Beaufort sparked fresh chortles as he impatiently beckoned the glass bottle over from Williams.

"Honest, now," Beaufort raised her voice to cut through the mirth, rolling her eyes at the men, "what word do we have?"

"Word?" Merriott cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Of what will happen next."

Isaacs took another swallow of wine. "God, Beaufort, you _are_ eager for action, aren't you. Why, we've but just got here, and already you are talking of what happens next and – and – and old Surrey not letting you out to scout, of all the things! Why, with that leg –"

He went silent as Beaufort abruptly stood, leaving her crutch untouched. Her face was visibly hot with indignation, leaving the men with no doubt that their squadron leader had treaded onto delicate ground. One of the only female captains in the Aerial Corps who was not assigned to either a Longwing or a Xenica, having had to forfeit those commands owing to an unforeseen early hatching of an Anglewing egg, she had earned a name among her fellow officers for her relentless drive – which, as some thought, was her way of making up for the loss of her promised dragon. It was no secret she had accepted her posting to Spain only grudgingly; always thirsting to prove herself, she had wanted to be at the forefront against Napoleon, not his _brother._ It took some time and persuasion on the part of Hamilton and even Commodore Surrey before she had thrown herself into her duties with a reckless fervor that surprised all the other aviators – and got her her most recent badge of battle, slashed on the leg by a burly French sergeant's sword during a boarding by an Honneur-d'Or at the battle for Salamanca three weeks before.

"Of all the worst –" she began, hotly, only to be interrupted by a hand on her arm; Hamilton had lurched out of his chair at the first word.

"Now then, lass, you just sit back down, and let's all talk like proper civilized people here," he said loudly, ignoring Isaacs's slowly hardening stare.

The pressure in his touch was obvious; but Beaufort paid it no attention. "I thought you ought to understand," she said on a subsiding breath, glaring at Isaacs. "I was mistaken."

"Beaufort," the squadron leader said a little sharply, "I understand my duties well enough, as should you. You are under my wing, and for the love of God, you know jolly well I am not going to send a flier out wounded. If you want back in the air that bad, you ought be in the infirmary instead of limping about, making the wound worse, delaying your chance of returning to action. Oh," he added, noticing Beaufort's smouldering steely-gray stare, "you can sniff at it all you like; it's just me, after all. But you just try and sniff at the commodore."

Merriott and Williams were looking from each other to the strangely subdued argument before them. After a moment, uncomfortably long in the sudden silence, Williams uncorked the wine bottle and swigged straight from it, clearly unwilling to be put off any more by the lack of glasses.

"Come now, Beaufort," he interjected, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "it's no bloody use getting all worked up over a trifle like this. We all know you want out; hell, we've come a long way, but I reckon we've much longer before we're headed home here. The French aren't done, and if they aren't done then neither are we. Come now; there's time left, and plenty, for us all to taste the air up there."

The older captain nodded, adding his own piece. "A year or so, it seems to me; but who knows how this sort of thing turns out? It's not something you can press. Even if you can take it, Veritas can't."

Beaufort, Hamilton's hand still pressing on her arm, continued to glare at Isaacs.

"When?" she said stubbornly.

Hamilton shook his head and withdrew, sitting down with a resigned expression.

"Two weeks," the squadron leader said, returning her stare impassively. "My word for it."

"No," came a familiar voice from the doorway that turned the heads of all five, "it will be much sooner than that, I am afraid."

The aviators rose as one and saluted Air Commodore Edward Surrey as he walked into the room, his rigid, measured stride echoed by the loud bang of the mess door swinging shut behind him. Waving off the compliments, he stood before them, tall, commanding, surveying them with a calm brown gaze.

"Fine evening, sir," Merriott ventured, eyeing his fellow officers sidelong.

"Indeed, Merriott," came the cool reply. "Please, sit, all of you. I realize not one good chair in this ruin is left for me, but it is just as well; the news I bring ought be delivered standing up."

The aviators traded uncomprehending looks. Surrey smiled, but it was a thin, humorless smile.

"No point in beating about the blasted bush, I think. As much as I'd like to explain the whole of it, time is not on our side. So – I have just come from the Royal Palace, in Madrid; the good Earl, bless him, got a dispatch from Whitehall; and acting on it, ordered me to re-assign two of you." His false smile faded at the sight of his captains' faces, particularly that of young Beaufort, who was looking increasingly alarmed. "I want you to know that I spoke of you all as highly as I could, but the final decision was out of my hands. So here we have it." He clasped his hands. "Hamilton, Beaufort, both of you will make for York tonight. I have issued orders to have your crew and baggage made ready – Canada awaits you. The American front awaits you."

No one spoke.

Hamilton found his tongue quickest of all. "With all respect, sir," he had half-risen from his chair, "it's a good deal to take in, and all the more so for it being a good deal of bollocks. We're committed here, for God's sake, and here you go on about packing us off to the Canadas when the business is barely done –"

Williams raised his hand. "Sir, you cannot mean to send Beaufort; she is not well, by God!"

"Now then, not a word," the commodore interrupted sternly. "Wellington himself picked you both. I know how you feel – you, Beaufort, most of all." The subject of this last looked like she had been clubbed on the head by a pistol-butt. "I know how much you'd like to stay here, and see this through. But an order is an order. We are at war with the United States, and dragons are needed on the frontier. You leave tonight, and you have until August the eighteenth to disembark at York; those are the words of the Admiralty."

Merriott heaved a huge sigh. "Can _nothing_ be done, sir?"

Surrey shook his head stiffly. "As I said, the decision is out of my hands. I am dreadfully sorry to you both; but there is nothing for it, not even time for a proper send-off as it is."

"Across the Atlantic in less than two weeks?" Isaacs remarked, skeptically. "I hope we have a dragon transport or two along the way. _Sea Dawn_ was in those waters last I heard; as was _Sapphire._ You are going to have to fly hard, make no mistake!" He lifted his empty wine glass in a toast, smiling slightly at Beaufort. "It seems you will be going back up far earlier than I promised."

"I shall dispatch couriers to bring word of your coming to the ships," Surrey said to a tight-lipped Hamilton, who was helping the stunned Beaufort to her feet.

An order is an order.

"Very good, sir."

xxxxxx

Their crew and baggage had indeed been made ready; it took only a few minutes of quick inspection to confirm that all was in place. As the men being swarming abroad, Beaufort remained by her dragon's head, stroking Veritas's nose and watching as, fifty yards across the courtyard, Hamilton bellowed rapid orders to his own crew.

"Anne-Marie?"

"Yes?" She was distracted, Surrey's words echoing in her head over and over.

The Anglewing's snout pushed at her. "You haven't told me why we are leaving; so sudden, and so late..."

"Later." She absently checked herself; her sword, her pistols, her personal effects. "We have the whole journey."

Almost the entire squadron had gathered to send them off – Isaacs, Merriott, Williams, and even the injured from the infirmary. The other dragons, roused by the noise of their preparations, had learned of what was happening and now stood quietly watching as well. Surrey could be seen off to one side, arms folded. He nodded in wordless encouragement as Beaufort looked in his direction.

The time had come. With a last look at her formation-mates, Beaufort allowed herself to be lifted up to Veritas's back. She gazed across at Hamilton. He was perched on Justitia's neck, looking in her direction, ready to take to the air. The courtyard was heavy with anticipation.

"Take care over there!" The shout came from a waving Williams.

"None of this bloody heat over there, how I envy you!" Vivere, his Malachite Reaper, grumbled, to a sprinkling of strained laughter from dragons and aviators alike.

"The Americans are fierce and resolute enemies, Veritas. Never take them, or their dragons, lightly. And remember what I told you about eating fish," Ira, Merriott's big Chequered Nettle, said gently. Veritas nodded and mumbled "Yes, yes, the bones" in return.

"Off you go!" James Rowan, his broken arm in a sling, called. "And don't you forget us!"

"We will do well enough," Isaacs added. "Don't you worry; by this time next year, we will have King Joseph in a cage back in London."

Beaufort looked skyward. The moon was high, painting the courtyard a stark, pale white.

"Gaffin," she addressed her lieutenant, "pray see to the shifts of the top-men, and stand down the gunners for the night; we will expect a smooth passage to the coast. Veritas, you may lift off."

Veritas rumbled deep in his throat and leapt into the air; a second later the courtyard was a frightful drop below, the ground receding as they rose further and further aloft. Hamilton was already turning his Pascal's Blue around to the west, and as Veritas's wingbeats bore her after him, Beaufort heard the draconic roars on the wind, led by Isaacs's great Parnassian Excelsis, "For King and country! Three cheers for Veritas and Justitia – Truth and Justice!"

She did not look back as the air of their passage whipped at her hair and face. She felt Surrey's eyes on her from far below as they dove into the night.


	4. Sunrise

**August 12, 1812  
HMS Sea Dawn – 70 miles off the North American coast**

"You leave tonight?"

Captain Kelvin Thomson, commanding officer of the dragon transport _Sea Dawn,_ stared at the strongly built but slightly graying aviator before him in a mixture of surprise and disbelief. The sun was just setting when the two dragons had arrived, and now, mere hours later, one of their captains was in his cabin announcing their departure. He'd seen nothing of the like before.

Hamilton nodded at him. "Much obliged, Captain, for your supplies and assistance, but we must be in York in six days and I am partial to an early arrival. Godspeed."

With a touch of the hand to his flying-hood, he turned. Thomson rose and stepped around his desk.

"My good man, come; I am sure there is something else I can do for you. It's for your dragons' good, you know," he added, seeing Hamilton's quirked mouth. "You have been over the whole blessed North Atlantic for days and days; and only one other ship along the way! You're doing yourself and the beasts no favors."

"Yes," Hamilton said wryly, "that is what they told me on the _Sapphire._ But if you knew our dragons, you'd know we can do this, and we damned well will."

They left the cabin and went up on deck. Sailors were milling about, busy with their duties, casting wary eyes at the pair of middleweights lying abreast on the dragondeck. Both were rigged and ready; Justitia drowsing slightly as her crew fussed over her, stealing some sleep in anticipation of the flight ahead, while Veritas spoke quietly with Beaufort, who leaned on her crutch by the Anglewing's head and gazed over the rail. Hamilton watched them for a moment, then turned back to Thomson. He had to smile. The naval captain's face was a study in sincerity.

Perhaps Navy men aren't all that bad after all.

"We damned well will," he repeated, the night breeze ruffling the flaps of his hood.

**August 15, 1812  
Lake Huron Covert – Outside York, Upper Canada**

Beaufort gazed about her. "This is America?"

Hamilton laughed, the sound oddly distorted in the noise of rushing air and wingbeats as the dragons came to ground. Immediately, the courtyard was a blur of frantic movement as the ramshackle buildings scattered all around spewed forth a veritable horde of crewmen, rushing to see to the new arrivals.

"Who commands here?" the senior captain roared over the hubbub, Justitia's still flailing wings keeping the crowd at bay. They were a motley, mixed lot; Englishmen, many local Canadians, and even a few Indians, their swarthy features standing out from the crowd. The Pascal's Blue finally settled herself and they came closer, calling out in a dozen voices.

"Make way! Make way!" the cry carried to the front, and the crowd slowly parted to admit a short, but impeccably dressed man in a crisp bottle-green aviator's uniform. The sight of the glittering emblems on his epaulettes, and the red-coated Marines flanking him, rifles on their shoulders, was enough to convince any onlooker of his rank and status. Hamilton disembarked after his crew and exchanged salutes with the senior officer.

"Captain Hamilton on Justitia, and Captain Beaufort on Veritas, reporting as ordered, sir," he said wearily, loosening the straps of his hood.

The short man gave a smart, sympathetic nod. "Wing Commander Nathan Greaves, acting officer commanding, Lake Huron covert," he said. "You are _fast,_ man, by thunder! It's not been a week ago that we received word of your coming, and here you are today. Splendid work; simply splendid." He appraised Hamilton from head to toe, great dark eyes flitting up and down. "I shall notify General Brock upon his return, to be sure. Now, you must be –"

Hamilton stared at him; and then at Beaufort, who was approaching slowly without the help of her crutch, no doubt to avoid any impression of weakness. "Return –? Where is the general?"

"Away," Greaves replied, perfunctorily, "at Fort Detroit."

Something about the way he pronounced the name pricked the hair on the back of Beaufort's neck. With a quick salute, she ventured, "I pray the general is well..."

The wing commander turned his huge dark gaze on her, momentarily distracted by something over Hamilton's shoulder. "So we all hope; but he is an extraordinary man, one of the finest commanders I have had the pleasure of meeting. I hardly think the Americans will give him pause." He smiled at the incredulous looks on the aviators' faces. "You may judge when you meet him. Come, I have ordered quarters made ready."

Beaufort stopped him. "Did you mention the Americans, sir? Is Detroit –"

"Siege," Hamilton almost spat the word. "A pretty affair this; we have made here from Spain in ten days, and battle erupts the moment we arrive."

As Greaves stared, Beaufort turned to her crew, busy unloading a panting Veritas's rig with the aid of the locals, and shouted, "You lot, there! Cease! Cease, I say!"

The British crewmen on both dragons stopped, some in the act of handing crates to each other, and looked at Beaufort in surprise. As the shout died away, Justitia lifted her head with an effort, big blue eyes scrutinizing her captain, in them a look no less profound.

"Charles, what is it?" she asked, the words emerging through a series of laboured breaths. "We are not going aloft again? I cannot; my wings hurt. We have flown too long."

"No, of course not, you foolish girl," Hamilton said, but he was staring at Beaufort, who was calling, "Gaffin, everything back abroad, if you will –"

The imperious voice of Wing Commander Greaves cut across the awkward situation like a knife.

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" Beaufort turned swiftly to face him, and he continued, face mottled with dawning disbelief. "I gave no such order; you lot, there, carry on!"

"Belay that!" Beaufort snapped over her shoulder. "Sir," she had moved a step closer to him, "we did not come here to sit on our hands while men are dying out there. Our dragons are not so out of sorts they cannot be of any use in a battle –" Justitia and Veritas traded a look of amazement, "– and I request –" the word soured her mouth, "– that you send us up at once. We were sent here for duty. Let us do our duty."

Her tone, rough with an impatience she could not quite conceal, incensed Greaves further. "That is enough! Captain, you will understand that you are now under my wing, and I am your commander, and you will act_ only_ as you are ordered to; and you will understand that the day I send dragons who have just crossed the whole bloody ocean into a battle miles away, I will gladly stand before the firing squad; and that_ after_ I have the scalp torn from my head by these Indian savages." He swept a hand at the crowd and the buildings around them. "You will understand that, or I will have you in irons! _Is that clear?_"

He was a short man, and even Beaufort had to look down at him a little; but his voice boomed as if through a speaking-trumpet, and not a soul dared speak in anything above a whisper as the noise of his tirade cannonaded across the courtyard. In the sudden, deafening moment of silence that ensued, Hamilton reached for his flying-hood and tugged it back in an irritated motion, saying, "Sir, your pardon; but I will thank you most kindly to leave the irons to me where my juniors are concerned." He rounded on the stiff-lipped Beaufort. "Stand down, Captain Beaufort, and see to the crew and baggage; I will have a word with the commander."

Beaufort looked as if she was going to burst into another argument, but the force of Greaves's command and the urging, insistent look in Hamilton's eyes had broken her every hope of leaving, and it was with a blaze of furious indignation that she turned, stiffly, and hobbled off. As the bustle and hubbub returned to the courtyard, both senior aviators watched her for a moment before returning their attention to each other.

"Trust Aerial Command to send me such a wildcat of an officer." Greaves remarked, distastefully.

"She is young, that one," Hamilton said quickly, "but she will learn. I assure you, sir, I have her well in hand; this shall not happen again."

The wing commander considered him. "Well, Hamilton; no point in having the two of you stand out here, and your dragons also. Get them to rest, at once, and do the same for yourselves, a good wash and bed; after the sort of journey you have just had, I want you as sound as can be when the time comes."

"When, sir?"

"Damned if I know. Since the general left, I have had no word; but, mark you, I have been in this country long enough to know where the wind blows. We let these Americans beat us thirty years back, but we had no Isaac Brock then; it'll be a far cry this time, I tell you. The general has the Indians and their dragons on his side, and he is a pride of the British Army; unless I miss my guess, Detroit will be ours by tomorrow. If not," Greaves smirked humorlessly, casting a sidelong glance at Beaufort, who was busy fending off Veritas's pleas, "I may give you two leave to go up for a look. If you feel your dragons aren't up to it, you can piggyback on the couriers." He sighed. "We've few fighting dragons left here. That is why you were sent for. I don't expect this war is going to take nearly as much out of us as Bonaparte is, but better safe than sorry; get it over and done with, and back to the real business. I don't fancy serving the rest of my time with the Corps on some bloody backwater of a side-show, and neither do you, I think."

**Siege of Detroit – Fort Detroit, Michigan Territory**

The sound of the guns told them they were headed in the right direction. Beaufort stood up in her straps, snapping out her glass, peering anxiously into the lens as the resonant booming grew ever louder on the horizon. The movement caught Captain Burton's attention, who turned from the looming battle ahead to regard her.

"Don't you worry, Beaufort, we shan't get very close," he said with a reassuring smile. "Celia's not here to fight; our orders are to observe, and I plan to stick by them."

"I would fight if Veritas were here," she replied scathingly, her eye still fixed to the glass. "What point is there, sitting in covert waiting for the war to be over?"

Burton laughed, and his Winchester craned her head round in mid-flight to stare at the both of them. "Surely you can't be asking that poor Anglewing to fight; why, he was so worn-out yesterday, I barely could get a word in before he flopped down like a dead thing, without a bite to eat after all that flying, at that. I do not think he can even muster another wingbeat."

"Aye, let him sleep well and good; in a couple of days, he'll be fit and rested, I tell you. There's none better than Canadian air and fresh game for a weary dragon." Burton added.

"Stuff and nonsense; he will probably be up and about the instant I am gone, the wretched thing." Beaufort muttered. "He almost didn't want to take off when we attacked Salamanca, when only an hour before he'd been frolicking with Vivere. Lazy is lazy, Burton; there's no other word for it, even in a dragon." There was a low rumble of disapproval from Celia; but whether it was aimed at her or at Veritas, she couldn't tell. A moment later, she lowered her glass. "There they are. Burton, hand me the speaking-trumpet; there's a good fellow."

The other Winchester was flying in loose formation alongside them, Hamilton on board speaking animatedly with its captain; Beaufort drew in a breath and shouted, through the trumpet, "Matthews! Come about; we'll pass over the river, and come south of the city; meet up with them on the ground."

"You are mad!" Burton protested, but Hamilton's bellowed answer drowned out his voice.

"I'm not letting two couriers anywhere near those American beasts! Burton, hold a skirting pattern; we'll circle the city as best we can at this distance. Look sharp! They may have lightweights out on the flanks, and we're going to have to make for the shore batteries if one or two come this way."

Beaufort met Burton's amazed stare for a moment before turning her face back into the wind. Hamilton was right, of course – the Detroit garrison had all their dragons aloft, and the aerial battle was raging in earnest. The American dragons were known for their savagery; in Spain, she had heard tales of them from Merriott, related to him by his dragon, Ira, who had fought the Americans during their great revolution three decades before. To approach such ferocious beasts, on a Winchester, would be highly dangerous if not suicidal. But such rational thoughts did little to smooth the frustration crumpling up her insides. All she wanted was to lend a hand, in any way possible –

A mighty crack thundered over the city.

It assailed her with a force almost physical in its intensity; loud and terrible, like the roar of a rifle being discharged near at hand but far sharper, deeper. It was like thunder from the earth where it should have come from the clouds. All feelings of resentment dissolved in a sudden, icy stab of apprehension as the blast faded away into a shattering of faint echoes and she saw, vivid against the cloudy sky, one of the British dragons – a Yellow Reaper – convulsing violently as it fell out of its flight path; claws and wings flailing crazily, it plummeted like a great stone and crashed to its death in an explosion of thrown-up earth between the city walls and the British line.

A tremendous cheer arose from the walls as the dust settled.

The sight ran like a shock wave through the British ranks; from where she stood atop Celia's back, Beaufort could see ripples in the distant mass of redcoats as the dragon's fall sank in. Burton's carabiner straps were snapped taut as he leaned forward, frozen; his face was as stunned as her own.

"Burton!" The high voice of Captain Matthews broke the spell that held them both.

She tore her gaze to him, yelling across from the back of his Winchester, "Get clear, damn you, get clear! They have some devilish weapon in that fort; get clear!"

"We have to land," Burton said thickly. "I'm not risking a minute more in the air, not with that... that _thing_... in the city, whatever it is."

Beaufort swallowed; her own throat felt ominously dry. "Use the tree line as cover," she managed. "We will fly to the general's camp in bounds."

The message was swiftly relayed, and seconds later the small courier dragons flew hurriedly to ground, making use of the trees to screen their passage as they glided low in the direction of the British line. Mute with shock, the aviators barely glanced at each other as their beasts bore them along at a slow, steady pace.

"Burton, Burton; what was that?" Celia was asking, worriedly; but her captain only shook his head and patted her neck, urging her on.

It seemed an hour before they emerged from the tree line onto the outskirts of the British line. Several dragons were standing at the ready, fully rigged and prepared to reinforce their companions in the air; the closest, another Yellow Reaper, turned and let out a high-pitched cry as the two Winchesters swept onto the field. Ground crews came running, and Marines; it was a second or two before it was perceived that they were not intruders. Hamilton took charge immediately, disembarking and marching up to the sergeant leading the Marines without ceremony; his age and his gravelly, commanding voice, coupled with the triple gold bars on his shoulders, gave him an air of authority no man present could muster enough courage to question. "You there! Where is the general? Lead the way, man, at once."

Major-General Isaac Brock was a tall, imposing man, towering over the Marines of his private guard, a forceful, hard-eyed presence in his stained and rumpled uniform. As the Marines parted ranks to admit the aviators, he glared at them with all the dangerous impatience of a military commander interrupted in his observation of a battle. Glass in hand, he met their salutes with a scathing glare, his powerful voice carrying above the cannon-fire and dragon-roars of the siege, "You bring word from Greaves? Speak quickly, damn you; I have a battle to conduct!"

Hamilton lowered his hand, speaking for the four as its most senior officer, "No, sir. We came as observers."

"Then observe!" Brock barked. "Observe! There is something in that fort, and it has killed three dragons since we began the attack – shot out of the sky, by that devil of a weapon Hull is hiding in the city! We are losing ground in the air; and if we cannot take them by air, God have mercy on me for what I shall be forced to do! How many dragons have you brought? Are they ready?" His eyes blazed at Hamilton.

"Two Winchesters, sir." Hamilton said coolly, not losing an ounce of his composure in the face of the general's fury. "As I said, we came as observers. Not to fight."

Brock waved a hand at him tersely. "Then you are dismissed. Get behind the lines. I cannot spare a moment longer if you have nothing of value to me."

"Sir."

With a quick, parting salute, Hamilton turned, keeping his cool; but before he could usher them out of the general's presence, Beaufort stepped forward. "Hamilton, wait. Sir – if they do have some weapon in the city, would it not be prudent to see it? A courier can go where a fighting-dragon cannot. Give us leave, and we will make a run over the city; find out just what the Americans have in there."

The general was back to the battle, staring with ground teeth through his glass, but at Beaufort's words he snapped around. Hamilton arrested her by the arm. "Now then, _lad,_ fast as a Winchester may be, it'll not make past that great mess up there; and no fort has no guns. Enough for one day. Let us go, hmm?"

He spoke loudly, for Brock's benefit, but the general was looking at her now, and intently. Beaufort winced at the needlessly strong grip on her arm, and shook it off impatiently as she returned the steady gaze.

"You can do this?"

Hamilton closed his eyes. Beaufort was painfully aware of those of Burton, Matthews, and every Marine and aide-de-camp around them on her – like she was out of her mind, she thought.

_I can do this._

"Sir."

xxxxxx

The American dragons were every bit as savage as Merriott's stories had had her expect. One, a massive forest-green heavyweight with lurid brown and beige stripes and wicked horns protruding from its bony, square brow, broke away and hurtled after Celia as they raced for the city's western wall. The sound of its primeval, ululating roar was like nothing she had ever heard, and a vicious chill rent her to the bone.

"Damnation!" Burton swore, eyeing the looming beast over his shoulder. "Beaufort, a signal – get them to keep that Tlenamaw off us till we gain the wall! Celia – higher; there's a girl, and don't you look back!"

The Winchester, shaken by the terrible roar, managed a wordless whimper before obeying her captain's command. Beaufort fumbled with the signal-flags at its tail, all her lessons flashing before her in an unpleasant moment of futility before she finally got the message up. She glanced up. The beast was so close she could have fired her flintlocks into its face, were Celia to cease her frantic zig-zagging flight long enough for her to steady her aim. Its great fangs glinted like swords in a gaping maw beneath blood-red eyes alive with a ferocious killing hunger; caught in a horrible fascination, she could not look away. The yelling faces of the American aviators on board were no less intimidating. There were Indians among them, she had time to see; then muskets were cracking and she ducked in a sharp, instinctive motion as Celia swung to the side.

"Fast as a Tlenamaw is, it's no match for a Winchester when it comes to heights," Burton said breathlessly as Beaufort clambered hand over hand with her straps to his side. "We'll lose it in the clouds, come down over the wall and you can have your look –" the word was a stony utterance, "– that is, if it don't catch us first."

Beaufort barely heard his words. Herself panting, the pain from her just-mended leg dull and grinding, forcing her to put her weight on the other, she struggled awkwardly into place, missing the last carabiner twice before her snapping hand locked the ring into place. Misty white engulfed them as they plunged into the clouds, streaking past them in wispy trails that flowed past the receding silhouette of the pursuing American dragon like watery cotton. She risked a last look back. Two smaller silhouettes of dragons were now at the Tlenamaw's heel; the other British aviators had heeded their signal. As well they should, she thought. A Winchester on a headlong run through a raging battle; if that wasn't a sign that something terribly important was afoot, nothing was. They needed all the time that could be bought. Then a bitter thought struck her and she grimaced, turning back. They might not even survive what was to come.

She glanced at Burton, exhaling a breath. "We lost it."

"For the moment," Burton replied, grimly. "I know that breed. Vengeful as a she-wolf, it is. If it catches sight of us again, we can say hail and farewell to a clean get-away. It'll chase us to the end of the earth. Look sharp," for they were gaining the fort's west wall, far below, "here it comes. One pass only, and we're out!"

"We will make it," she asserted, but her stomach clenched as they began their slow, steady descent.

In all its sprawling, frontier glory, Detroit unfolded before their rigid, wind-stung gazes. At their height, the city was even smaller than the size of a man's fist held out at arm's length, and the rapid movement of American soldiers along the walls and ramparts was like the undulating of a tide of ants. Celia uttered a low whine and folded her wings, taking them into a steep drop, as blooms of fire began bursting into life below. Shuddering booms shook the very air around them as they dived earthward, the wind screaming.

Beaufort's heart leapt into her throat. The wind tore at her face, her hair; her ears were filled with a deafening roar of rushing wind and rapidly nearing cannon-fire. The city loomed large, nearer and nearer, buildings taking on definable shape and pattern, teeth in the maw of a monster rising up to swallow them.

You can do this?

_I can do this._

From somewhere far away came Burton's wavering, distorted voice, "Take wing!"

At the words, Celia's wings snapped out taut and the world jarred back into focus with an agonizing jolt. All the breath was knocked out of Beaufort for a second, then her swirling vision steadied in a sudden burst of crystal clarity as they sped on a drunken course over the wall. Guns bellowed below to the accompaniment of hundreds of startled cries as the small dragon soared past.

One hand tight on her straps, Beaufort pulled herself up, breathing hard and fast as Burton exhorted his dragon through the heart-stopping hail of fire and smoke. Her eyes leapt from gun emplacement to gun emplacement, swarming with tiny figures.

The familiar shapes of cannon swept by. Beaufort raised a hand to wipe her eyes, but held it back. Her heart was pounding in time with Celia's frenzied wingbeats. Not even a split second was to be spared. She gritted her teeth, staring helplessly as her vision began to blur with tears from the shrieking, smoke-laden wind.

Burton yelled something. She ignored him, hand frozen in its raised position, glaring fixedly at the American positions on the ground as they lurched left and right at dizzying speed.

The shock of seeing it hit her like a knife-stab in the heart. At the very instant the air shook with that same, incredible thunderclap she had heard earlier, a star-burst of flame bloomed at her from the muzzle of a huge contraption positioned on the roof-top balcony of a tower building in the center of the city. It was a thing out of a night-dream; a sleek, gleaming thing of sinister, mechanical elegance. The sun glowed, bright and fiery, in its steel. Never had she imagined such a weapon, or its gunners – for there were men laboring at the strange cannon, if cannon it truly was; men cloaked and hooded in black, with silvery gleams of reflected sunlight for faces.

Then they were past, and the tears stung as she finally blinked, once. The unbelievable sight seared itself into her mind as they cleared the emplacements a moment later. Burton's cries finally sank in. "Hold strong now, Celia! Beaufort, ware! Get down – we are climbing!"

Her legs finally buckled and she slumped onto Celia's shivering back, hand still spasmodically clutching her carabiner straps.

xxxxxx

General Brock paced the length of his tent, his gaze canvassing the officers before him. Dread sat heavy in him like a stone. His fists clenched and unclenched as his thoughts ran over the victory they had just won – after hours of hard fighting, the Americans had been forced out of the air, at the cost of two Yellow Reapers, two Malachite Reapers, and a Regal Copper. A heavy price. But the air was now theirs, and the guns of Detroit had been falling ever more silent since the last American dragon was brought to ground.

His own guns were still at it, and hard. From the Detroit River, batteries and ships continued to pound the fort. Tecumseh's Indians had surrounded the city and were spreading the disease of fear through its garrison with their bestial war cries. He thought of the ruses he had employed in hopes of tricking Hull into thinking he had thousands more than he did. Would the old American general bow his head?

Would he, if that weapon of his were still in American hands?

The young, bold Aerial Corps captain had returned, against all odds, from what had seemed a suicide mission. The dragon that had carried him had been wounded, a ragged, gaping hole in one of its wings testament to how close it had come to being shot out of the sky on that unspeakably daring flight. And the news he had brought, of the strange... cannon... he had sighted in the city, had brought a hush of dread on all who had gathered in the general's tent to hear his report. Brock had found himself dry-mouthed for the first time since he had taken the field.

If the United States had such a weapon on their side...

"So be it," he murmured at last, coming to a stop. Every man crowded into the tent stiffened at once, the aviators included.

"Whitehall must be appraised of this at once."

Beaufort and Hamilton exchanged a sideways glance. In the senior captain's eyes, Beaufort saw relief; anger; pride. One after the other, and all together.

"God strike me blind if I am to fight a war with such a force in my disfavor. One of you will make for London at once, and give the Admiralty a full brief on this."

She had returned, in one piece. She had gambled her life on a foolhardy, reckless thing. And she had won.

_I did this._

"Captain."

Brock was looking at her. "Sir."

"My apologies." His voice was gruff. "Your name?"

She smiled a little, then caught herself, thankful for the flying-hood that shadowed her face. "Beaufort, sir."

"Captain Beaufort." The general cleared his throat. "You were as good as your word. That was... extraordinary, for lack of a better phrase."

"You are too kind, sir."

"You alone saw this American weapon?"

"That is correct, sir; Captain Burton was guiding our flight, hence he was too caught up to observe."

Brock nodded, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Then it must be you. These are your orders, Captain Beaufort; I will inform Wing Commander Greaves. You leave as soon as is necessary."

He had barely finished the sentence when an aide-de-camp's cry rose from outside, "General! The city –!"

Outside, a white flag could be seen billowing on the city walls. Cries of "Surrender! Surrender!" were erupting all along the British line, echoed by growls of triumph from the dragons in their makeshift field covert. Brock stared at it, then turned to his staff, gathered before him.

"Hull has fallen for it, that old buzzard," he declared, his voice rising. "Gentlemen, Detroit is ours. Cease the bombardment; I will expect their messengers soon."

As aides-de-camp departed in a hurry to execute the general's orders, Beaufort turned to her fellow officers.

"Well." She breathed, deeply. "It seems I am to leave as soon as I have arrived. Quite a lovely state of affairs this; but I've done what I can, and I'll be thinking long and hard on that as I go back the same blasted way I came." She made a sour noise. "May the Corps remember me for crossing the Atlantic and back in two bloody weeks."

"If they don't," Matthews said heartily, "we will. You have done more in a day here than most of us have done in a month! Tell _that_ to the arm-chair generals back there."

She looked at Burton, standing silent and pale to one side, and impulsively clasped his hands in hers. "Burton, man, I would be now rotting in some gutter in there –" she jerked her chin in the direction of the city walls, "if it had been any but you and Celia up there with me. You're a damned sight better than any courier captain I ever flew with. Thank you, my friend – and don't you fret about Celia," she added, looking him in the face. "She'll be on the mend soon enough. I'll write you about her, I promise."

Burton matched her smile with a wan one of his own. "Quoth the general, you are as good as your word, Beaufort. I will hold you to that promise. Godspeed now; I've got to get back to Celia, the poor girl."

They parted hands as Brock approached. Beaufort blinked in surprise. She hadn't noticed Hamilton's absence until now, but there he was by the general's side – and addressing a low whisper to a pensive-faced Brock. He finished with a resigned wave of the hand, and Brock nodded with a knowing smile. With one last look at Beaufort, the general turned on his heel and left, hidden from sight moments later by aides-de-camp following in his wake.

Hamilton strode up to her. "Come then, lass," he said quietly, "the Army boys have their work to do here, and so do we. Let us be on our way."

She shook her head, bewildered. "We? _Us?_ Are you –"

"That I am." He chuckled at her expression. "Why, you ought to know jolly well I'm not letting you go all that way back by yourself. They sent us two here, so now they can have us two back."

"But, the war –!"

"Oh, the general agreed on one thing. Now Detroit is in our hands, it won't be much longer before we send the Americans packing back south. We lost quite a few in the air today, that's for sure; and that weapon of theirs you saw, I have a feeling they won't surrender _it_ that simple. But we dealt them a lovely long butcher's bill in exchange; and it is going to take more than that devil cannon of theirs to stop the tide now. You and I, we are going back to London; I will have an official request from Brock for enough dragons to put an end to this bloody Canadian circus, and you can tell them what you saw here. Trust me when I say this, lass, you will be needing a voice like mine; it takes an old man to face them pompous old men. Time's running. We leave by tomorrow."

Beaufort was still shaking her head as he took her by the shoulder and steered her toward the field covert. "Hamilton, I cannot believe you. Just what did you tell him, man?"

Hamilton laughed, a quick, sharp burst. "He agreed on one more thing, the general did. With you as eager to get yourself killed as you are, you'd likely end up in the ocean a thousand miles from England, and Aerial Command would be none the wiser." He winked at her. "Unless, of course, you have got me with you."


	5. Morning

_Author's Note: I'd like to extend a heartfelt thanks to the handful of readers who've been so kind to read and remark on my scribbling here. It's been over a year since I worked on this piece, and being as out of touch with Temeraire canon as I currently am, I suppose I'll be continuing it my own way. So, should you notice any change in my writing style from here on out, it's probably unintentional, but I won't be worrying about it overmuch. I've a story to tell, and, I think, so do a lot of Temeraire fans out there. Come on. We could use a lot more fan material on here!_

**August 18, 1812  
Russian 2****nd**** Army of the West – Near Smolensk, Western Russia**

The blaze, turning bleak night to brilliant day, that consumed the ancient city on the far horizon, might well have sprung from the eyes of the stout but hollow-cheeked aviator with his salt-and-pepper beard ruthlessly shoving his way through the soldiers and aides-de-camp outside the command tent. He did not so much as meet a single, startled gaze, despite the many drawn by his torn, smoke-stained uniform and bullish behavior; yet one look at those wildly flashing eyes was sufficient to still even the most vehement oath on the lips of the most outraged man. Once they saw him coming, they willingly stepped aside to spare themselves his vicious touch, and it was but the work of a minute before he had gained the tent's entrance, where guards crossed their bayonets with a ring of steel to bar him.

"Move," he snarled at them, and, abruptly recognizing him, the shocked soldiers withdrew their weapons.

Prince Pyotr Bagration, commander-in-chief of the Russian 2nd Western Army, looked up in mingled surprise and annoyance as the intruder threw the tent flap back into place behind him with a loud, forceful _thwack._ The dispatch he had been perusing suddenly forgotten, he composed himself with a swiftly drawn breath. "Get out of here, Alexei. Now, before I call in the guards."

Kokorin strode up to him, broad chest heaving. "God damn you. Now listen; I have not flown here straight out of the bloody battle to be turned away just because you have a problem with my face; or some other reason as dumb as _you_ have been since the very day you popped out of your mother's womb." He stabbed a callused finger at the general's face. "I don't care what you think of me. But you call those little boys in, and their blood will be on _your_ hands. I have come to make a report; and, since you are the general here, I have no choice but to make it to you."

Bagration remained cold, unmoved. He put down the dispatch, looking deep into the eyes of the one man in all of Russia's aerial corps he knew better than he would like to admit. There was fire there, and ice; the hot, unbridled wrath of a soldier fresh from the field, and a terrible purpose – a purpose that had, he instinctively perceived, shaken the 'Flying Bear of Moscow' to the bone. Ten years he had known this man and he had never seen suchlike – save once. The memory of it came back, all of a sudden, and with it a chill awareness.

"Go on," he said, softly.

"Remember Friedland," Kokorin seethed, and Bagration felt the flesh on his back prickle.

"The day after. When I came to you, same as now. Remember what I told you that day. I have seen it again. Here."

The Russian general rose from his chair, shaking his head in disgust. "Enough," he raised a hand, "I remember well enough. And you will remember that I did not believe you then, _same as now._ I have not the time – nor am I disposed – to sit through your fairy tales a second time. Barclay, that wretch, has damned us all, running like the rat he is –"

A great hand, pitted with old, black burn-scars, shook the table with a loud bang, sending papers sliding to the ground. _"Ubljúdok!"_ Kokorin bellowed in his face. "Bastard! You will march on and on while every city in Russia is burned behind us! Do you know how many men I lost in the air today? Blast your eyes! Smolensk is lost; and all because _you_ left that vermin of a German in command! Do I have to throw my dragon's bloody head at your feet before you will open your eyes? Do we have to empty the corps and leave you naked from the air before you will listen? Nigh on thirty years I have fought for the motherland, and that is too long to watch it led to ruin – by anyone! You, or de Tolly, or _anyone!"_

The Russian aviator's last, seething breath was hot on Bagration's stony face.

"Now," he continued, as the general made no reply, "you will listen. You will remember. And you will believe. The French have a weapon that can shoot dragons out of the sky as we do to birds with a musket. Just an hour past, I saw it from above. Ringed by pepper and shrapnel guns and a whole division. A great steel cannon... a thing of the Devil. Its gunners wore black cloaks. Not French uniforms." Kokorin's hand crushed the papers below it into a sodden heap. "The same as I saw five years past. At Friedland."

The general's impatience was visibly mounting as his voice thundered on, and, finally, Bagration snapped in his face. "Alexei! What do you take me for? I am no aviator, 'tis true, but I know enough of warfare to sift the husk from the grain! You have taken leave of your senses, man, and no mistake. You, a senior captain; and this is all you have to offer? Five years on? You lost then," the fire in the Russian aviator's eyes grew, "and you, having lost now –"

"Turn around," Kokorin snarled. "Turn the whole bloody army around, now. Join with that blasted German and attack. You can fall on them as they leave the city to pursue us. I will take what is left of my formation and circle round south of Smolensk, find that accursed weapon and destroy it. We –"

_"Guards!"_ Bagration roared. The two soldiers on guard entered the tent, bayonets at the ready.

"Enough is enough," the general spat. "I cannot in all honor stand here and listen to this drivel a moment longer. You two, take Captain Kokorin away at once."

With a murmured "this way, sir," one of the soldiers reached for Kokorin, only to be halted by a rock-like fist that smashed his face into a bloody mess and dropped him, senseless. The other, with a stunned oath, drew his musket back to strike; it was wrenched from his hands mid-swing and crunched into the side of his head with dreadful force. Before Bagration could draw a breath or utter a word, the musket had joined the splayed bodies on the tent floor with a ringing clatter and Kokorin stormed out of the tent, his large frame disappearing behind the flap.

Bagration at last found his voice. "You are relieved of command!" he bellowed to the empty tent. "Do you hear? As God is my witness, I relieve you of your damn command!"

**August 19, 1812  
Over the North Atlantic – 400 miles off the coast of Nova Scotia**

"If it's of any consolation," Lieutenant Gaffin was saying, "we know we can make it back right as rain. We did it once; we can do it again."

"If we can find the transports," Beaufort muttered. Veritas let out a low, rumbling groan.

It was tenuous, carefully paced going, in consideration of the tremendous distance ahead to cover; a flight to stretch even their formidable endurance thin, just as the one before. Neither dragon was a Greyling, and such long-distance flight was quite out of their common repertoire; smooth, sustained gliding while their crews scoured the horizon for British sails was all they could manage. All the crew was put to this task – there could be none more pressing with the world only an endless expanse of ocean on all sides. Few were the top-men and signalmen, harness-men and riflemen who did not chew their lips in growing anxiety as the hours dragged on and the clouds raced by, while the sun rose to its zenith and beat down mercilessly on them all.

"I make four, five hours past noon," Gaffin went on, squinting at the sky as a low, deep noise rolled over the horizon. "Thunder? Don't look like rain's coming."

"Let us hope not," Beaufort said, pulling her flying-hood back to feel the wind in her hair, "at least not until we're safely on deck."

"Will we not put in abroad them this round, Captain?" the lieutenant inquired.

Beaufort tossed hair out of her eyes and glanced across to Justitia, flying alongside them with slow, measured wingbeats. She knew what Hamilton would have to say to that. Unaware of her scrutiny, he spoke with his crewmen and kept his eyes on the horizon.

Why had he elected to come with her? She started to shake her head, then stopped. He had been sent to York, in part, to watch over her; it was only natural he should continue to do so now. Since the day of her arrival in Spain, where she had met him and the others of Isaacs' squadron, he had been nothing short of the perfect mentor; unfailingly austere in all aspects of her professional guidance, yet genuinely kind and concerned with her well-being. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that she was a girl, but he had always treated her somewhat different than all the others. Almost like a best friend's daughter, or a favored niece. She had come to like him and his ways – as had the entire squadron – and the fact that he would be accompanying her on this American exile was a fortune in misfortune. Or so she had seen it that night in Madrid when Surrey had broken the news.

Of course, with the war and the British lack of good fighting-dragons, far behind them, she supposed he ought to have stayed. That part of her mind of one accord with her uniform said duty, honor, country. At the same time, however, she did not wish him hung out to dry in the Canadian wilds any more then she wished that fate on herself. It was a slightly guilty thought, one she brutally forced from her mind as it formed. It was no fault of hers he didn't stay. It was his choice, and his alone.

Then another, worse thought wormed its way in, and this one she could not banish as easily.

_I'm still afraid._

She closed her eyes, rubbed them.

"Captain?" Gaffin's voice broke upon her thoughts.

"Perhaps," she answered, pressing her knuckles into her temples. But she knew, even as she spoke, that they would. Hamilton was the one in charge here. And – and, come to think of it, there was no reason why she shouldn't agree with him this time. They weren't expected in London, after all.

"I think we will," she hastily added, opening her eyes and looking into Gaffin's. The look of shock in them left her confounded for an instant – then she was turning swiftly around to a sudden chorus of shouts and alarmed calls. The rolling boom again – now unmistakably the roar of ship's cannon.

"Enemy sail two points to starboard!" came the chill cry of the lookout. Beaufort snapped out her glass.

Little more than specks on the distant horizon, two ships traded broadsides and grapeshot in the thick of a naval duel that left the waters all around churning and wreathed in smoke. One flew the United States' stars-and-stripes; hope seized Beaufort as she made out the British colors on the other, and also on the lone Parnassian circling above it. Three dragons, she thought, a familiar anticipation swelling within her. _Three to none._

"Beaufort!" Hamilton was shouting at her through his speaking-trumpet. "Get in close! See what we can't do to help out here!"

Hair flying wildly in the rushing wind, she returned a broad smile and a quick, patronizing salute, and gave the order to close in on the battling vessels.

xxxxxx

"It's ours, or I am a bloody Irishman!"

Tying her hood back into place, Beaufort gave the midwingman responsible for the exulted cry a withering stare. "Look to your station, man, or I will have you hanging from the harness by your teeth once this is over." The young man slunk back, abashed, and she whipped about to stare at the swiftly approaching ships.

"Closer," she told Veritas. "We'll likely be needing more than one bomb run to even the odds for the Navy boys. That big lout would be glad of our help."

"He does look angry, Anne-Marie," the Anglewing said, straining his own eyes against the glare of reflected sun.

The thunder of cannon was by now almost constant; it was difficult to pay no heed to the carnage wrought by each roar and blast of smoke upon the decks of both vessels. She forced herself to look up, focusing instead on her dragon's words. The big British dragon was holding a skirting pattern, slow, large circles; each beat of its great wings keeping it out of range of the American ship's air-defense guns. Veritas was right; the Parnassian was evidently in a state of high-strung agitation, making wild snapping noises as it circled, signal flags waving –

God! She almost slapped herself. "Hamilton!"

The flags streaming out from Justitia's tail took a moment to read. _Report on enemy vessel._ A standard message. Not so the one from the other dragon, which her frantically narrowed eyes now fixed on.

Her signalman made it out first. "Dangerous weap... Captain! _Dangerous gun on board!"_

Ice filled the blood in her face, her neck; pulled as if by an unseen string, her head swiveled to stare down, down... the world swaying, swaying. The cannons were louder, closer. She was all alone on a courier in enemy territory. The air all around was black with smoke and fire, shuddering with booms that assailed her with physical force. The enemy below was firing into the sky, a hundred unfolding blooms of flame. She was on her dragon; the noise of cannon, crackle of musketry, and draconic roars rising to a maddening tumult as her eyes found the horror on the stern deck of the American vessel.

"God." She could not speak. Her tongue sat heavy in a sand-dry mouth. "No."

A face beneath a black hood, turned skyward. A gleam of reflected sun that hurt her eyes. Others. Twinkling gleams. Tall figures black-cloaked. The Devil's own weapon.

"Away!" came Gaffin's shrill cry, and crewmen let loose their deadly burdens, raining explosives down. Hamilton was coming round for his pass as they made their own turn past the ship's stern, Veritas swiftly climbing beyond gun range and heading for the Parnassian's wing.

"No..." Her groping hand found the speaking-trumpet. The name of the ship, _Constitution,_ smiled in bright, bold letters before her shaken gaze.

"Hamilton," she shouted to him, managing only a rasp; then, _"Hamilton!"._ Her voice rang hoarse, desperate, on the keenly whistling wind. _"Climb! Climb!"_

Time slowed then, the happenings of a heartbeat playing out in an hour, as it had that day high above the Arapiles when she had seen the outstretched hand of death come for her. The Honneur sweeping in from above; the silhouettes against the sun of French aviators like angels fallen from heaven; the big man descending on her with the gleam of steel and a frenzied grin. Her shaking, grasping fingers that could not seem to close on the butt of her pistol. The crippling fear that had suddenly cooled the battle heat, a deadly stab of ice, tearing all courage out of her as the wind tears out one's breath on a hasty dragon-back dive.

_"Climb!"_ Horror swelling her heart, she lurched forward, leaning so far out her straps creaked in protest. Gaffin, noticing, began to clamber over with gritted teeth to rein her in.

Justitia's shadow, gliding over the glittering surf, darkened the enemy ship's sails. A spray of tiny, black objects began cascading seaward, a shower of explosive death. "Hamil – "

The blast knocked her back as if she'd been struck by a speeding carriage. In the first instant the world span upside down and the speaking-trumpet went flying from her limp hand, her mind wrestled with the flimsy conviction that it was the explosives – and then, immediately, caved in under the dead weight of reality. She knew better, much better than she knew. That was the sound that had struck such dread in the hearts of the besiegers of Detroit, the thunder that had brought five British dragons down to the dust with all hands. The fire from the maw of the nightmare weapon the United States Army had unleashed against Brock on a Canadian battlefield. The weapon she had seen with her own, disbelieving eyes on a near-suicidal flight over enemy territory, and now – again – again –

The ear-splitting roaring of a dragon, near at hand but swiftly fading away on the wind, finally jolted her out of her paralysis. That little corner of her mind still able to reason told her, coldly, that it was a male's.

_Not Justitia. Not Hamilton!_

Gaffin's hand was under her arm then, dragging her upright in her straps, his voice in her ear shouting, "Captain, Captain" but she could take no notice; her eyes were filled with the thrashing form of the big Parnassian, spilling little human figures cutting themselves loose from their straps in a final act of desperation, as it spun wing over wing into the waves below. A great splash that sent froth boiling up against the American ship's hull – and it was gone. Swallowed by the sea. The awful sight brought tears; sudden, vicious, burning.

Then the terrible, helpless fury seized her, and she opened her mouth to cry out once before darkness fell.

**HMS **_**Sapphire**_** – Somewhere in the North Atlantic**

Hamilton left Captain Weaver's cabin with all the respect and gratitude due to a fellow officer who had just, as if by the hand of Providence, provided their dearly needed last rest stop on the arduously long flight back. Having sighted the _Sapphire_ barely an hour after their ignominious retreat that had left the _Guerriere_ to its fate, they had put in abroad, conveyed the unconscious Beaufort to private quarters, and left the dragons to their much-deserved rest, while the prisoners were summarily clapped in irons and hauled down to the brig to await judgment.

And the judge was now come, descending the stairs with slow, ponderous steps that rang with a veritable menace – for the brig was Hamilton's first stop after paying his compliments to the ship's captain.

They had picked up the two American sailors, on their last breaths in the merciless sea, a short distance from the battle. Beaufort's abrupt collapse had caused quite the stir atop Veritas, not to mention the Anglewing himself, who was so anxiously trying to see what had happened to his captain that he almost flew in a circle back toward the battling ships; Hamilton, however, had taken charge of the situation, ordering both dragons to stretch their wings east with all haste at once before the poor Parnassian's fate became theirs. Once he deemed them safely out of range, he had given instruction that none should look back, and then himself took out his glass to witness the woeful sight of their Navy comrades dealt a humiliating defeat by the great American warship. The crew had all obeyed, silently, understanding the senior captain's rationale; though they all knew England had lost this round, at the very least only he, their commander, would bear the mortification of beholding it with his own eyes.

Then Lieutenant Gaffin, acting in command on Veritas, had called out that they had spotted men overboard below. Ropes and nets were lowered, the dragons dipped and made one pass, and both drowning men were caught up, soaked to the bone and half dead from exhaustion. Sailors from the _Constitution,_ Hamilton learned, mere merchant marine deckhands pressed into service to support the United States' war effort; they had been thrown over the side by cannon fire from the _Guerriere_ early in the battle. He had them bound hand and foot and kept under watch, to be interrogated at the first opportunity.

Which was now. The sailors, two wretched shapes in dripping rags huddled close in the corner of the cell, blinked blearily at the sudden light as Hamilton entered. He motioned the guard out behind him, and the hollow thud of the door shutting was a chilling match to the timbre of his voice when he spoke a second later. "Look at me."

The men flinched, peering up at the grim, lined face they could see but dimly in the shadows of the ship's belly.

"You know who I am?"

"Yes sir," one of the sailors answered immediately, his voice quavering from the wet and the cold. Neither moved from their crouches.

"What was that weapon?"

"Sir?"

"You killed a dragon of ours with it. What was it, and who were those men manning it?"

Silence. The sailors seemed to trade edgy glances, neither willing to offer up the information their inquisitor sought – for fear of his reaction, or for fear of the words themselves.

"Answer me!" Hamilton blared, and they flinched a second time. "Who were those men?"

"Mad folk sir, that they are," the sailor stammered, hugging himself tight. "Lunatics. Mad. Just mad folk that talk of kiddy stories –"

_"I will have you hanged!"_ The senior captain's voice thundered down at the two cowed men, plunging the brig into another tense, pregnant silence.

"Devil's kin!" the other sailor suddenly blurted out.

Hamilton's stony stare transfixed him. "What did you say?"

"Came abroad at Boston," the man began stuttering, the words rolling out and tumbling over one another. "Cap'n had orders – he gave 'em a might good welcome, said they'd turn the war, he did –"

The British aviator's eyes were hard as diamonds in the dark. "Slowly."

"Devils from Hell all. Never ever seen such like. Weren't men but devils. They ain't got no faces. They got these things _swords,_ every one of 'em, like – an' they put 'em together, and it becomes a _cannon,_ like, only it's no damn cannon we ever seen in all our born days. They lunatics sir, I heard 'em – always up to grim talk 'bout some saints an' slayin' dragons and such like. Mad as goddamn brimstone preachers. They don't eat, don't sleep, they stand at the rail all day an' all night starin' up at the sky. Mad." The man's voice had been rising to a sharp rattle, and he now stopped for breath, all but coughing out the last words. "Ain't human, I say sir. From Hell, that they are."

"You tell a lovely tale, man, I have to hand you that," Hamilton growled, contemptuously. "And all a dragon net-load of bollocks."

"No sir. No sir."

"I would say _you_ are the lunatic!"

"Ain't nothin' but the truth sir."

"The _truth?_" His voice rose again. "What in the name of Christ do you take me for?"

"I swear sir –" The appeal was arrested by a vibrating clang of metal as Hamilton drove his boot against the cell's bars, his voice raging on in its wake.

"Today a dragon of His Majesty King George's Aerial Corps was killed _by your hand!_ And how many others before that in the skies of Canada? And here you sit, thinking to spin a yarn and hoodwink me? You think to save your sorry skin with 'kiddy stories', do you not?" He veritably seethed, his anger like the glow of a fire. "Very well, come sunup tomorrow, the noose –" The loud, pleading wails of both sailors interrupted him, and then the voice of the guard outside cut across it all before he could finish his sentence.

"Captain? Lieutenant Gaffin to see you, sir."

He turned, surprised. The door creaked halfway open and the tousled brown head of Beaufort's second emerged through the gap.

"Sir, I think Captain Beaufort is coming round, sir. You asked to be notified?"

He had. No matter what. Flicking one last withering gaze at the two shivering, condemned men crouching in the cell, he abandoned the short, infuriating interview and swept out with all the air of a magistrate having banged the fatal gavel.

xxxxxx

She was sitting up on the cot, one hand pressed to the side of her head, and did not seem to notice his presence in the cabin until he came close and put his on her shoulder.

"God _damn_ it," she said, and her voice was faint, slurred, simmering with shame. "What a – what a –"

The dryness in her throat choked her off. He placed a wooden water mug in her free hand, and watched as she drank thirstily, vengefully.

"What a – bloody mess," she finished, forcing her eyes open and staring at the coverlet.

He took the mug from her limp hand. The very stillness of him, the coiled, tight posture on a stool next to her, made her turn her head and gaze into his face, mere inches away. He was staring straight at her – but she could see his eyes were not. They were far away, and the look in them made her swallow hard.

An image came to her, of a wild, frozen moment over the ships, before the Parnassian had been shot down: an image of Justitia sweeping past on her bomb run.

_Good Lord. Has he…_

"When we land, lass, we had best make right there." She heard his words, low, grim, as if from a distance. The mug dangled, forgotten, from his fingers.

_He has._

"We have wasted time enough."


End file.
